Baking Bread
by smilerg98
Summary: The Hunger Games from Peeta's POV. I was stupid and had to delete the first one so yeah. Sorry about that.
1. Chapter 1

**I made a small change to this chapter because I just (well, not just, but last week) finished Mockingjay, and I realized that my bread scene, possibly the most important scene in the whole series, didn't exactly fit the book. So I modified this chapter so that it would be more true to the series. And sorry I haven't posted Chapter 4 yet, I haven't had much time to work on my story between school, sports, camping, and writer's block, but it'll be up soon, I promise!**

When I wake up, soft, rose-colored early morning light is filtering through the windows onto my bed. The world is silent except for the sound of my family already hard at work in the bakery. I sit up in a panic. I should already be up by now! Why haven't my parents woken me up? Then I remember what day it is and slowly slump back down into my bed. It's the day that everyone in District 12 dreads. The day that we all pray for the same reason, no matter if we're Seam or town. The day that either you celebrate, or you weep bitterly. Today is the reaping.

I slip out of bed, mindlessly, barely noticing what I am doing, and drag myself to the back room, where I find my father already hard at work at the ovens. He pays no attention to my entrance. I have nothing better to do than decorate cakes. And besides, when I'm frosting the cakes, I feel at peace. I am creating a thing of beauty, so rare in District 12. It takes a lot of work, but it's worth it to see the smiles on people's faces when they come by the bakery window and see my cakes. Especially worth it when sweet, little Primrose Everdeen comes. Her blue eyes light up and they are even more beautiful than whatever cake is in the window that day. And normally, her sister is with her. Katniss Everdeen. We are from two different worlds. She is from the Seam, the poorest part of District 12. I am from the nicer part of town. She has been struggling to survive all her life. I- well, we have to eat the stale bread, but food is food. We in District 12 can't afford to be picky. I sigh as I sit down on a stool and start slathering frosting on a cylindrical cake that will make up a layer of my finished product.

My father comes towards me and awkwardly pats my head, putting a very, very, very small loaf of bread down on the table. Fresh bread. He puts a finger to his lips, pointing in the direction of the room I share with my older brothers, Alex and Sterling. His eyes say, _Don't tell them. This is for you. _Then he returns to his work. I am surprised at this, because normally, our family only eats the stale bread left over from the day. _Well,_ I think bitterly. _The reaping is the only day they ever care for me. _My parents never do think about me, or my two brothers, Alex and Sterling. I think my dad wishes he had at least one daughter instead of three rowdy boys. But he's gotten over it mostly. I bet my mother _still_ wishes she'd had a sweet little girl with blonde hair and sky blue eyes. I've just been disappointing them ever since birth. Well, at least not with the blue eyes, blonde hair thing. "Peeta, that cake is crooked!" "Peeta, when will you ever learn?" "I feel ashamed to call you my son."

My hand shakes, ruining the intricate frosting design on my cake. I put down the bag of frosting and pick up the loaf of bread, turning it over in my hands. It reminds me of something that happened with Katniss long ago, something she's probably forgotten…

We had both been eleven. The rain pounding the windows matched my mother's mood. At our dinner of stale bread and oil, she shrieked, "Peeta, look what you've done to your shirt!" I looked down. There was the smallest oil stain right below my shirt collar.

"It's a tiny stain!" I said, indignant. My mother knocked me aside the head. We ate the rest of our dinner in fuming silence.

Suddenly I heard a rustling sound outside our open back door. I put down my piece of bread and looked that way, past the glow of the ovens hard at work. My mother got up, still seething mad, and strode to the back door. I heard her yell, "Move on, you little brat! Do you want me to call the Peacekeepers? I am so tired of you Seam rats pawing through my trash!" I stood up and peered at the supposed "Seam rat" from behind my mother.

It was a girl, with olive skin, dark brown hair, and hauntingly clear gray eyes. She trembled at the fury of my mother and the relentless rain, beating down upon her. Even beneath the mud, there was a certain beauty to her. My heart skipped a beat, realizing who it was. Katniss. My father had loved her mother, and I had followed in his footsteps with the next generation of Everdeens. My mother went back inside grumbling, but I remained watching the girl as she made her way exhaustedly over to the pigpen and leaned against our apple tree. Even this action took several labored breaths from her.

I went back into the kitchen, where my mother shoved loaves of bread into my arms. "Go put those in the window display out front, and don't lollygag about it," she said, shaking her finger at me. I took one step and tripped over Sterling's foot. Instinctively, I threw out my hands in front of me, letting the loaves of bread fly into the oven. I heard Sterling snicker, and then I saw my mother's eyes widen and her mouth open. _Aw crap. _"THAT WAS PERFECTLY GOOD BREAD AND YOU JUST TOSS IT INTO THE OVEN LIKE WE CAN AFFORD TO DO THAT!" She hit me with a rolling pin but I didn't feel anything. I stumbled out the back door as my mother screamed something else. But I couldn't hear her. I just sloshed through the rain blindly, still seeing stars.

Each drop of rain stung my body like tiny daggers digging into my skin. My mother continued to scream at me. Then I heard the bell ring, signaling that a customer had entered the store, and the screaming stopped. I made no eye contact with Katniss, but I felt her eyes on me. I was originally going to feed the bread to the pig, but… Katniss. The pig was probably better fed than Katniss, and did he really need extra food? Maybe the burnt pieces… I glanced towards the open kitchen door one more time, thinking of how my mother would beat me if she found out about this. But she wouldn't. So I tore off the burnt pieces of the bread and threw them into the trough. Then after I'd gotten rid of most of the blackened bread, I tossed the loaves towards Katniss and went back inside.

I rubbed my cheek where my mother had hit me. Searing pain. Not just physically, but also mentally. I felt unloved and bruised, probably because-well, I was.

But it all paid off. The next day, at school, sure, I had a bruise and a black eye, but I caught her staring at me. Our gazes met, and then I looked away. She's stared at me multiple occasions after that too. Now, though, she's probably forgotten all about it, all about me. She still probably doesn't know my name.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and survey what I have made. Without even noticing, I have created a three-layer cake covered in white frosting, with plants and flowers frosted here and there. I think it's the best one I've ever done. I smile, thinking of how people will enjoy it, and carefully lift the cake. Cautiously, I carry it to the front of the store and place it in the display window.

Now that I am done decorating this cake, I don't know what to do. I turn and see my mother at the register. She supports her worn face in her hand as she stares blankly out the window. I wonder what she is thinking of. We don't really get along well. A perfect example of that is the thing with Katniss. And there have been countless examples before and after that. My mother doesn't even try to hide that she loves my older brothers more than me. No time to think about that now, though. Today is the reaping. There is plenty more to think and worry about.

I return to my room and take out my sketchbook. It's an old battered notebook I got a few years ago for my birthday. I use it to draw what I can't draw on my cakes. It is filled with plenty of embarrassingly terrible drawings, but recently, I've gotten better. I flip to my newest drawing. It's of Katniss, glaring straight at me with her storm cloud gray eyes, her dark brown braid, her olive skin, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, her feet shoulders' width apart.

This happened around last week. I had just finished a new cake, with a picture of our family frosted on the top, and as I was placing it in the display window, Prim and Katniss came walking by. Through the glass, I saw Prim tug her older sister's sleeve, pointing towards the cake with her eyes glowing. I smiled at Prim, who smiled back, and then smiled at Katniss, who glared back with the glare in my picture. It made me feel like I was a tiny little bug, and she was a giant getting ready to squish me. And I admired that. Her fearlessness, her strength, everything about that glare she gave me. Call me crazy, but I admired it.

I study the drawing again and shake my head. It will never do. It will never capture the fearlessness of that moment.

I eat the small loaf of bread. It's still warm, and smells irresistible. In no time at all, it is gone and I am wishing there was more. So I just sit there, doodling in my notebook. I draw Primrose Everdeen, with her wisps of blonde hair, her laughing blue eyes, with a huge smile on her face. I draw Effie Trinket, the insanely upbeat Capitol woman who comes to District 12 each year to read out the names for the Hunger Games. She has an inhumanly stretched smile on her face, and her hair is an unnatural pink, the color of the small flowers that grow along the edge of the fence that "protects" us from wild dogs and such at night. Really, it just adds to the sense of imprisonment and gloom. I draw a speech bubble near her mouth and write her signature catchphrase: "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Every sentence she utters sounds like it has an exclamation point after it.

I doodle and doodle mindlessly until I hear a knock on the door. I hastily shove my sketchbook under my rough covers and say, "Come in."

It's my mother. She peers her head through the door and says, "Lunchtime, Peeta." Her voice has a soft tone to it that is only ever heard on the day of the reaping. I place my sketchbook carefully underneath my pillow, stand up, and follow my mother out the door to the table in the back room where we eat our meals. She places a thin, rough-skinned hand on my shoulder. This is the first time my mother's touch has made me feel this warm, this comfortable.

My father and brothers are already sitting at the table. We nod to each other as my mother and I sit down. On each plate, there is a little loaf of bread, not unlike the one my father gave me this morning, a piece of salted squirrel and a piece of fresh roasted squirrel. Only on a reaping day do we have a lunch like this. Never do we have fresh bread, and we normally save the salted squirrel for winter.

After a while of just picking at my food, everybody gets up in some sort of strange silent agreement and we all leave. I return to my room and just stare out the window, thinking about nothing at all. I hear a knock on the door, and before I can say "enter", my mother comes in, holding a white dress shirt and black dress pants. The clothes look pricey- which is strange, because no one in District 12, save for the Peacekeepers, can afford this kind of finery. Certainly not us.

She sits down on my bed and places the clothing down, smoothing out the creases. Her blue eyes look far, far away. Her blonde hair, with just a few hints of gray, is tousled, so I smooth it down like she smoothed out the creases in the clothes. She looks at me and smiles. _Smiles_. I think this hasn't happened since I was maybe three. Then she sees my raised eyebrows and explains, "My father's reaping outfit when he was your age." She runs her fingers, so calloused and worn, along the fabric.

I know why she's acting so far away with the clothing. Grandpa used to live with us. My mother was his favorite child, and every day, when the day was over and my mother was fully stressed out, Grandpa would sweep her up in his arms, (he was quite strong for his age) give her a big kiss on her cheek, and boom, "Helloooooooooo beautiful!" I bet he could make even President Snow laugh. My mother loved him a lot.

So you can imagine what it was like for her when he died.

I had been ten. Grandpa had been sick for a while, maybe a few weeks.

My mother had shrugged it off. "Please," she'd said. "It's only a lingering cold. He'll be better in time." I don't think she wanted to believe it, and neither did the rest of us. So we agreed with her.

And then, one day, when I was hauling something- I don't remember what- inside, I heard an agonized wail coming from Grandpa's bedroom. I dropped my something, cried, "Grandpa!" and ran to the room. I remember almost drowning in my own sweat, a combination of nervous sweat and sweat from exhaustion. And then I saw my mom, kneeling beside Grandpa's bed, making choked sobbing noises. And Grandpa looked horribly unmoving, horribly lifeless, horribly… dead.

I still don't know how he died. No one has taken the trouble to tell me. Peeta, the baby of the family. Peeta, the boy who doesn't understand anything.

I shake off this memory and smile up at my mother. I know that this means a lot to her. "Thanks, Mom," I say, wrapping my arms around her. Once I do this, strange noises start coming from her, and she starts shaking. Then I realize she's crying. Awkwardly, I pat her back. This causes her to sob even harder.

"I know, I know," I say. "I miss him too."

She waves this off. "No, no," she says. "You just- you look so much like him."

Well, I suppose that's where I got my looks from. One thing that I haven't disappointed my mother in.

We sit awkwardly side by side for a while, and then my mother clears her throat and says, "Well, put it on for me, then." I pull my gray shirt and pants off, and pull on Grandpa's clothes. They're like a hug from him, assuring me that everything will be all right in his husky, yet soft, tone. I stand up, and my mother beams at me. She grabs me by the shoulders and sighs happily, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Go look at yourself in the mirror," says she. I obey her, walking to the bathroom, the location of the only mirror in the house. What I see is a town boy staring back at me with surprise in his blue eyes. Blue eyes that are identical to mine. Blond hair exactly like mine. I close my eyes and imagine Grandpa when he was young, wearing this very outfit at the reaping. I smile, imagining the jokes he might have made about the whole Hunger Games, while everyone else was scared out of their skins, living every day in the fear that their loved ones, or themselves if they were young enough, might be picked out of the many slips in the reaping balls.

While I may look like Gramps, I didn't inherit his personality. Sure, I'm a pretty easygoing guy. I guess you could call me funny. But every year, when this day comes, the day of the reaping, I am terrified.

If I could, I would stay at home all day during the day of the reaping and hide under my pillow in the hopes that maybe I won't be found and that I won't get picked. But that cannot be. Everyone is forced to attend the reaping, unless you are about to die. Peacekeepers come around every house, and if they find you inside, you get locked up.

We leave the house around one. I'm not sure exactly when, my nerves are getting to me. The normal incessant flow of chatter in the square is not present today. The bright banners strung from the rooftops do nothing to lift anybody's spirits. Cameras are everywhere, broadcasting our miserable district to the rest of Panem. We sign in and I am immediately separated from my family. As uptight as my mother is, I miss her comforting touch. I miss the sound of my father's slow, heavy footsteps. I miss the sound of my brothers' breathing. Now, I am surrounded by other sixteen-year-olds, familiar and unfamiliar.

One of those familiar is Katniss Everdeen, looking even more beautiful than normal in a soft, baby blue dress, like the color of her little sister's eyes. I stare at her, drinking in her beauty, until I hear the town clock toll twice. I look up at the temporary stage set up in the square this morning to see Mayor Undersee step up to the podium and read the story of how out of the ashes of the world, plagued by natural disasters, rose the wonderful, fantastical nation of Panem. At the center was a Capitol, surrounded by thirteen outlying districts. At first, all was well. Then a rebellion against the Capitol, called the Dark Days, occurred. Of course, the districts lost, and in the process, the thirteenth district was destroyed. Now all that's left of that is ashes and dirt. The Treaty of Treason gave us new laws, ones that would keep us contained. And the stupid Treaty of Treason also gave us the Hunger Games.

Every year, each district is required to send two tributes to participate in the Hunger Games, a nationally televised fight to the death in some sort of large outdoor arena; the type of landscape changes every year, and no one knows what it will be until the actual Games. The winners of the Hunger Games come back to their districts heroes, and all year, the Capitol rewards that district with special gifts, most of them being food. Oh, and the victors get to move to a place in their district called the Victor's Village, a small-scale model of the houses in the Capitol. And that's saying a lot.

So who wouldn't want to be in the Hunger Games? A lot of people. Because, in the Hunger Games, there are plenty of people bigger and badder than you. And those people are out to kill you. Now, if you _are_ one of those "bigger and badder" people, then you have a pretty good chance. But there's always the cunning people, who twist and manipulate your words and actions. And in the past, those kinds of people have been winners.

Which is why I have no chance in the Hunger Games.

So, right now, while Mayor Undersee is blabbing on and on, I am hoping-_praying- _that I won't get picked. I'm also praying that Katniss, oh Katniss, the love of my life, will not get picked. Although she would have a much better chance of making it than I would. She and her stupid "friend" Gale Hawthorne hunt, illegally, mind you, together and sell their game to the townsfolk.

Just the thought of Gale makes my face grow warm. I've been jealous of him pretty much ever since I met him.

I was four and infatuated with girls. In fact, I had a girlfriend; my next-door neighbor, the daughter of the owner of the sweet shop, Delly Cartwright. One day, we were chasing each other around in my yard when Gale walked by. Delly stopped running and I tagged her. "I got you!" I yelled triumphantly. But she didn't pay attention. She walked up to Gale and said, "Hi, you're pretty." And Gale just kept on walking. Delly was frustrated. Whenever she wanted something, she normally got it. So, she said, "Bye, Peeta," and ran after Gale. And, ever after, Gale has been the object of many girls' affections. I mean, I stopped caring once I met Katniss, but still. He's always been stronger, better looking, and just in general, more appealing. Not only for his looks, but also because he hunts. Illegally. So he wouldn't even need his looks for all of the girls to be swooning over him. They all love a bad boy.

Another reason why I'm jealous is that he, along with many others, fancies Katniss. The reason he stands out the most is because he also happens to be Katniss's hunting partner.

You might even call them best friends.

My thoughts on Gale Hawthorne are interrupted by the unmistakably peppy voice of Effie Trinket. "Happy Hunger Games!" she says, her annoying voice magnified by the microphone. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!" At this time, I notice that Haymitch Abernathy, the heaviest drinker in the town, the only surviving victor from District 12, is onstage, sitting in a chair between Mayor Undersee and Effie Trinket's currently empty chair.

Effie's constant stream of blab is uninterrupted except for the occasional barely audible yawn from the audience. And then, finally, finally, she says, "Ladies first!" and crosses the stage to put her hand into the glass ball containing thousands of slips with girls' names on them. Some are duplicates. If you are poor and starving, you can sign up for tessera, a supply of grain and oil for one person for a year, if you enter your name additional times in the reaping. A normal sixteen-year-old would only have four entries. Others, such as Katniss Everdeen who has to enter her name three extra times each year because of herself and her family, would have this amount multiplied by ten.

Effie Trinket's hand is still rummaging around in the glass ball, mixing the paper slips up real good. _Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, do not pick Katniss. Please. _Her hand has found a slip. She raises it up to her eyes to read the name and her mouth opens. _NOT KATNISS! _

"Primrose Everdeen."


	2. Chapter 2

2

For a moment, I am relieved. _It's not Katniss. Not Katniss. _My brain was so focused on it not being Katniss that it didn't focus on others that I didn't want to get picked. But cold, hard realization sinks in as soon as I think this.

_Prim!_

I hear a series of small, choked gasps, and turn to see the source of the sound. It's Katniss, but her face is horribly disfigured with pain. When I see this pain on my beloved's face, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I did not wish that Prim would not get picked. Ashamed that I had had that thought, that selfish thought that it wasn't Katniss who got picked. Ashamed that I can feel such relief when someone else, someone I love, is in such agony. For some reason, this makes all the difference for me. Everyone watches as Prim, the angel with the looks for it, Prim, the tiny wisp of happiness, Prim, the little girl who wouldn't stand a chance in the Arena, who would probably go on the first day, everyone watches Prim, the newest female tribute from District 12, make her way through the crowd and up onto the stage. Her fists are clenched tight, and her white forehead is beaded with sweat.

"Prim," says Katniss, disbelieving reality. "Prim!" she calls out, more urgently this time, starting to run toward the stage. The crowd automatically parts, like the doors of the elevator in the Justice Building, to make way for this poor, tormented girl, whose sister that she loves more than life itself has just been sentenced to certain death.

Before Prim can even set her foot onto the first step of the set of stairs that leads up to the stage, Katniss pushes her out of the way and breathlessly says, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

_NO. _I manage to keep my lips tight and not scream this as loud as I can. Love is sacrificial. I understand this perfectly, and in a way, I am experiencing this firsthand. I am sacrificing my lover to save the person she loves. If I scream in protest like I so desperately want to, that would be greedy of me. It would be wrong of me to restrict the person I love from making choices of her own.

Effie Trinket says something, but I don't want to know what it is. What do her petty little words matter when my world has just ended? _If only I'd talked to her once… just once…if only I'd made my move. _

But then Effie says something that pops out in my head that breaks the hazy cloud of thoughts enveloping my brain.

She says my name.

At first, this makes no sense. Why would Effie Trinket, high and mighty Capitol woman, be addressing me? Then I realize- she has picked my name out of the millions of slips in the reaping balls.

_Stupid! _I was so busy wishing that others would not be picked that I did not wish for myself not to be picked. I know that it probably wouldn't have made a difference, but some small corner in my brain insists that if I had done just that, maybe someone else would have been picked.

I make my way up to the stage, trying to remain emotionless, like Katniss is doing. Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, and I'm hoping, praying that I look like her, almost bored, when no one answers. I wasn't expecting anyone to, but still, this silence is heartbreaking. Sterling, the strongest in the family, would have gladly volunteered to save me, his little brother. I can see the pain in his eyes that he can't save me, he's too old. But Alex is a whole different matter. Alex has always been the baby of the family, though he's a year older than me. He was born a month early, and as a result, he was smaller and weaker than he should be. Heck, I'm three inches taller than him. I've always been the one to protect him, from the monsters in our room when he was little, from the bullies at school when we were older. And I can see him crying into the shoulder of the boy next to him, he wants to do something, but he can't, because he's too scared.

The mayor starts to read the Treaty of Treason. His monotonous tone would put me to sleep, if I was not so nervous. But the droning helps sedate the butterflies in my stomach. It gives me something to concentrate on other than the fact that I, most likely along with Katniss, will most certainly die a painful bloody death in the arena.

Random thoughts are racing through my mind at a million miles an hour. My mother's face, my father's face, Alex, Sterling, Gale, Prim, Katniss's mother, Katniss… Katniss. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. This becomes my only loop of thoughts. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. There's no way out of it. She will die. I will die. She will die. I will die. She will- but wait! She doesn't have to die!

My brain starts to formulate a plan, a plan that ensures her survival- but then the mayor gestures for Katniss and me to shake hands. I hold my hand out and she slips her hand into mine, and once her skin makes contact with mine, it's like I've touched the electrical fence surrounding District 12. Except it feels a hell of a lot better. I squeeze her hand, to assure her that it will be all right, that she will survive if it's the last thing I do. And it probably will be.

As we turn to face the sea of people, people that I've known for all my life and that I will probably never see again, people that I love, my brain turns back to my plan. Panem's national anthem plays. I used to admire the tune, the booming majesty, but now, now that it's playing while my love and I are most likely to die, so prideful and full of joy, I hate it. Hate that this joyful music can be playing at this moment every year, when two innocent kids have just been most likely sentenced to death. Because, since District 12 is the poorest district, our tributes are normally those who have never had a proper meal in their life, the weakest ones. I mean, out of seventy-four years of Hunger Games, only two victors have been from District 12, only one is still alive, and he's infamous for his heavy drinking. That gives you a pretty good perspective of how good a chance District 12 usually has in the Hunger Games.

A crowd of Peacekeepers surrounds us and we are taken to the Justice Building. I don't realize what's happening, I'm so focused on my plan, until I realize that I'm sitting in a room that's probably the nicest- and most nauseating- room I've ever been in. I settle myself into the fancy velvet couch uneasily. All of this seems too pretty to touch. Digging my feet into the thick carpet with swirling patterns calms me a little bit, but then I realize something. I'm sitting in a room, on a couch, where seventy-four years worth of male tributes from District 12 sat. And the thing is, most of them are dead. I squirm in my chair, feeling even more uncomfortable than before.

My friends Hunter, Jarryd, Justin, Lucas, and Caleb walk in. "Hey guys," I say with a sad smile.

"Hey," say the twins, Jarryd and Justin say in unison. We all crack up. It feels nice to be laughing with my friends, even though we all know this is probably the last time we'll see each other.

"Soooo… any parting words for your dearest friend?" I say.

"Hey, don't think like that. You might not die," says Hunter.

"Well, he doesn't have much of a chance there. I mean, just look at him!" says Lucas, bumping me with his elbow.

"Hey, gentle wif the widdle baby! Don't wanna get him too roughed up before the Games have even started!" says Caleb.

"Hey, who got second in the school wrestling competition?" I say.

"You," they mumble.

"Who's beaten all of you jerks up at one time or another?"

"You."

"Who's awesomer than all of you put together?"

"… definitely not you!" says Hunter. We all crack up.

The Peacekeepers burst in, silently telling us that our time is up. As my friends stroll out, Lucas calls, "Try hard not to die! Need you, Peeta!"

"Will do!" I call back.

Next come my brothers, eighteen-year-old Alex and nineteen-year-old Sterling. We stare at each other. They sit down next to me and then spontaneously, Alex just bursts into tears and buries his face in my shoulder. Sterling pats his back. We sit there, Alex crying onto my shirt, Sterling biting his lip trying not to cry, and silent tears pouring down my cheeks.

Once Alex calms down, we reminisce about all the times we had together. That one time when Sterling won the wrestling competition at school and I came in second, and our parents gave us each a small cookie as a treat, including Alex. The times when we were little and would take our sheets and build them into forts. The times we would defend the kingdom of our back yard from the evil Mr. Pig. My fourth birthday, when I got a bag of sweets from Delly Cartwright and I shared it with my family. And now, we won't have any of those times ever again. In short, this sucks. The Peacekeepers enter the room and we're saying to each other, "I love you," over and over again. Why waste a moment when we have so few left together? Then the door shuts and I'll never see my brothers again.

My parents walk in, staring in awe at the elegant room. "Nice of you to come visit me here," I say to get their attention. They are jerked back to reality and look at me with shocked eyes, not sure what to say to me. "Well, sit down. Make yourself at home." I gesture around at the cushy chairs. My mother and father sit down together on the other side of the couch.

For a while, there's an awkward silence. Then my mother says, "Well, we might finally have a winner this year." This cheers me up slightly, the fact that my mom has believed in me after all, until she continues. "She's a survivor, that one." My heart sinks and I start to tear up. Of course. She didn't believe in me after all. She never has.

"Yeah, well, nice seeing you. When Katniss wins, I hope you remember me."

She says nothing back, and I see the slightly shocked expression on her face as the Peacekeepers escort her out. I feel triumph, but then the full impact of she said sinks in and I bury my face in the pillow. It depresses me to know that my mom never believed in me, but really, it's not that surprising. So I cry. I cry and cry and cry. I cry to let out all my sadness about everything. About my mother never believing in me, even when my life is about to end, about the way my friends so nonchalantly said goodbye, about the way my life is going to end. Painfully. Maybe I should just kill myself. _NO, _says my brain. _You have to stay alive. For Katniss. That's part of your plan, genius. _That's right, not only do I have to worry about my now inevitable death, I have to protect Katniss. So I wipe the tears from my face, wiping my old life away with it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, let me just say something: thanks so much to my first three reviewers: ellasaurus, revbev353, and Romanov289. When I got home that day, I checked my profile, saw your reviews and screamed! It made my day. So thankyouthankyou and thank you again. You guys have never made me more excited to read my spam!**

After that, I barely notice anything. I barely notice my first car ride, the view outside the windows blurry because of the speed. It reminds me of my life. I barely notice the swarm of reporters at the train station, like ants to honey. And we're the honey. I barely notice my face broadcasted on huge screens, showing all of Panem my tears. I barely notice the ornate tribute train that will transport us to the Capitol, even more amazing than the Justice Building. I barely notice Effie Trinket saying we can do anything we want, as long as we're ready for supper in an hour. I just sit on the overlarge bed in the middle of my room, not even noticing the room itself. It's layered with blanket upon luxurious blanket. The soft materials relax me. I lower myself and lay my head on one of the huge, fluffy, snow-white pillows. I stare up at the ceiling. This will be the last comfortable place I'll ever be in. _So enjoy it, Peeta, _I think. _Enjoy it while you can._

I get up, shake my head to rid it of the haziness, and walk to the bathroom to take a shower. Yes, I have my own private bathroom, all to myself, with a shower. At home, there's a bathroom in the store and a bathroom upstairs, for our family. But I have to share it with my mom, my dad, and my family. I mean, we have a shower, but since I'm the youngest and therefore last one to take a shower, I've never had a warm shower. There's also a dressing area. All this in addition to my bedroom. _Oh, if only the boys back home could see me now! _

I take off my clothes, turn on the shower, and step in, expecting a freezing cold blast like I'm used to. Instead, I feel warm droplets running down my body, and even though I know I'm on the train, I'm still taken by surprise. But after I've gotten over it, which doesn't take long, the warm spray calms me and clears my thoughts. Now I have to focus on my plan. But maybe the shower worked a bit too well with clearing my thoughts, because my mind is absolutely blank. I have no ideas at all. Frustrated, I shake my head like a wet dog, thinking that maybe that will help me think. Of course it doesn't. Man, I'm an idiot. How is an idiot supposed to know how to save a life when there are so many other people against you? Stronger, faster, cunning… that's when it hits me.

I turn off the warm spray and dry myself with the unbelievably soft towel, so unlike the rough, coarse ones at home, a shade of ugly brown. I need to find my mentor.

I open the door to my bedroom and change into some random clothes I grab from the closet. Then I step out of the changing area to see Haymitch sitting on my bed, a bottle in his hands. He looks pretty sober, but alcohol keeps sloshing out of the bottle and onto my sheets, so I'm not sure.

"Hey, quit messing up my bed," I say to get his attention. He turns to face me.

"Ah, young Peeta Mellark," he says in a steady tone. At least he can talk. And that's all I need.

That's when I notice he has my sketchbook in his lap. For a split second, I think of all I've written and drawn in there- all my hopes, all my dreams, my innermost thoughts- and then I lunge for Haymitch. I hear the bottle shatter on the floor as I grab him by the collar. "THAT'S _MY_ SKETCHBOOK!" I holler.

He's not fazed. "And quite an interesting sketchbook it is." I draw my hand back to punch him, but I stop myself. This was exactly what I didn't want to happen. And it's happening before we've even gotten to the Capitol.

The Games are changing me already.

I get off of him and stare at the floor. Liquor splashes onto my shoe, and he says, "I'm tired. I'm gonna take a nap. See you at supper, baker boy." I hear him stumble to the door, open it, and then close it. I sink to the ground. What have I become? Already? Regular Peeta wouldn't have been that pissed. Regular Peeta would have gotten a little steamed, but he would just forcefully order Haymitch to give it to him. But I'm not regular Peeta anymore. Am I? I don't know.

Now I have two commitments. Keep Katniss alive, and don't let the Games change me. And a third: do whatever I can to keep my commitments.

It's been an hour since we first got onto the train. That means it's time for supper. So I walk out of my room, almost slipping in a puddle of alcohol on the shiny wooden floor, and make my way to the dining car with the assistance of the same brown-haired boy.

Effie Trinket is there, sitting at an elegant table, set with elegant tableware that looks like I could break every piece with my little finger.

Effie stands up and pipes, "Oh, good boy, Peeta, you're here. Sit down, won't you? You stay here and I'll go get Katniss." And with that she tousles my hair and rushes off, leaving me feeling like her dog or something. "Sit, Peeta! Stay! Good boy!" Pats head, gives treat. But whatever. I guess all people below her rank are like animals to her.

I just sit, admiring the shiny paneled walls, the linen tablecloth almost as soft as my blankets in my room, the stunning dishes and silverware, polished to perfection, the napkins folded into complicated shapes, until Effie comes back with Katniss. And when Katniss enters the room, my knees are rubber, my palms are sweating, and my heart is passionately beating. I've seen her a million times, but every time, the sight of her makes my heart leap.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie, a little too excitedly, even for her.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I respond, thinking back to our not-so-successful conversation.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day."

Katniss sits next to me- _Katniss sits next to me!- _and the food comes. And it comes, and comes, and comes. All of it divinely delicious. First carrot soup with a green salad. Then lamb chops with mashed potatoes. This is like manna from heaven. Effie Trinket is saying something, but between the delicious food and the beautiful girl inches away from me, I can't hear what she's saying.

Then she says something that makes my stomach twist. "At least you two have decent manners. The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." Last year. A boy and a girl from the Seam. You could see their ribs through the thin rags they wore. They were starving kids, both of them signed up for tesserae. And Effie Trinket was discomforted by their terrible table manners. Right there and then I decide that I do not like Effie Trinket. But I don't know what to do. I'm just speechless at her comment.

But Katniss is not. She eats the rest of her meal with her fingers, and then uses the costly-looking white linen tablecloth as a napkin to finish off the meal. I smirk at Effie Trinket, who looks like she's smelling something unpleasant. I don't know about her, but I'm feeling unpleasant. Not from Effie's comment, but from the food. It was so rich, richer than I'm used to. I look over at Katniss and I can tell she's feeling the same way. I feel like I'm going to throw up. But not in front of Katniss. Oh no. That would be the embarrassment of a lifetime. So I try my hardest to hold it in, even though my stomach desperately protests.

We watch the reapings in another car. They're spread throughout the day so that someone could watch them all live, but only the residents of the Capitol can do that, given the fact that none of them have their names in the reaping balls. I don't really pay attention to the reapings. I don't want to see the faces of the kids, some of them younger than me, that I will have to fight to the death with. In addition, I'm also kind of focused on not upchucking on Katniss. The only one that I really pay attention to is the reaping in District 12. The horrifying scene is replayed: Prim being called, Katniss pushing Prim behind her and screaming her name, saying that she'll take her place… and my heart breaks again. This I don't remember, but everyone in the crowd raises their three middle fingers, an old sign of our district that means goodbye to someone you love. Haymitch throws an arm around Katniss's shoulders and shouts something I don't understand. Then he falls off the stage. Then they show me being picked and me silently taking my place. Ending the program is the anthem of Panem.

"My wig- er, hair…" Effie mutters. I'm trying to hold laughs in. Haymitch was hilarious. It's a shame I didn't see it live. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."  
This final straw breaks the camel's back. I burst out laughing and say, "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

Katniss is smirking. "Every day."

"Yes," says Effie in a somewhat menacing manner. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cure, Haymitch enters the room, stumbling drunkenly. "I miss supper?" he slurs. Then he barfs all over the ornate carpet, and as if that wasn't enough, falls into the stuff.

Effie says, "So laugh away!" and sprints from the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello people! I'm back! Yes, yes, I know I lied about having chapter 4 up soon, but it's here! Give your thanks to randomzchicka, who inspired me to post this chapter! It's a bit long, I know, and I was going to make it even longer, but I was just so eager to post it that I just went ahead and did it. Okay, I'll shut up now and you can go read. *waits patiently for reviews***

We both watch Haymitch's unsuccessful attempts to rise out of the mess he created. Then we exchange glances, and each take one of his arms. "I tripped?" he says in puzzlement, as if such a thing could never happen. "Smells bad." He smears vomit on his face with his hand. I think back to the words Effie Trinket had for us. _Haymitch can very well be the difference between your life and your death! _If that's so, then we're dead. We're so dead.

I sigh and say, "Let's get you back to your room. Clean you up a bit." We drag Haymitch to his compartment, into the bath, and on the water goes. I don't think he doesn't even notice. Then, since I doubt Katniss, whose face is looking pale right now, will want to have tubby time with Haymitch, I tell her, "It's okay. I'll take it from here."

Her face's pallor changes back to normal and she breathes a sigh of relief. "All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

"No. I don't want them." The poor servants already have it bad enough. They don't need to suffer through this. Besides, Haymitch has taken Katniss and me on as responsibilities, and this is the least I can do to return the favor.

I unceremoniously prop Haymitch up and pull his shirt off. Then I somehow manage to force him into a standing position and pull his pants off too. I toss these both in the sink and turn the hot water on them. I look at Haymitch for a few seconds and wonder how he turned from a victor to- this. A man in no good shape, wasting his life away in drink. Mysteries the world will never know.

"How did you get here," I muse aloud, wiping a sponge over his body.

He says nothing, just twirls his finger in the foaminess around him.

After a period of time filled with awkward silence, he mumbles something.

I pause. "What was that, Haymitch?"

"Annesel." Annesel? A person, maybe?

"Annesel!" I jump. He looks at me with wild eyes. "They killed her. They killed her. And my mother, and my sister. THEY KILLED THEM ALL!" He hunches up into a ball and starts sobbing. "Annesel… Mother… Delilah... Dead. They're all dead."

I feel uncomfortable. Like I'm intruding on something private. So I slowly back out of the room and leave Haymitch to drown in his own misery. Who killed his mother? His sister? And Annesel… maybe his girlfriend? It's hard to imagine Haymitch, with his beer gut and sparse hair, with anyone.

Once I'm in my room, I throw the curtains open. I like sleeping with the windows uncovered. At home, the moon creates a beautiful pool of silvery light on my bed. When I sleep, it feels like I'm wrapped in the moon, and it always calms my mind. Gives me peace and serenity. Gives me something to hang onto in this crazy world. No matter what, I know that when I look out my window, I can see the moon shining bright. And I need that kind of reassurance now.

The moon spills onto the ornate blankets. I sigh. At least one thing in my life can stay the same. I close my eyes and try to recall home. Was it really just this morning that we shared our last meal together, my family and I? Was it really just this morning that my name was picked from the thousand-plus names in the reaping balls? Was it really just this morning that I was forced to say goodbye to all my loved ones? It seems like forever ago.

I push these thoughts from my mind and try again to recall home. Father's calloused, yet gentle hands, Alex throwing back his head and laughing, Sterling's amazing strength and humility, Mother's rare smiles… I try to recall the best of home. All the good memories. Not the bad ones. I want something good to hang onto when I die. I want to be filled with all the best memories of my family.

I lie down under the covers, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in moonlight. Thinking all night of my family and what they're doing now. Are they crying? Is the shop closed? Or is business going on as usual? If business is going on, I bet they have their hands full. On the day of the reaping, if you don't get picked, that's cause to celebrate. So the poorer families in town will have a nice dinner, if they can afford even that, or a special treat from one of the shops in town, and the richer families will go all out. Normally, at this time, we would all be sweeping up the shop, tired but happy about the amount of money we've gained.

All night long, I stare at the ceiling, recalling memories from long ago and that just happened. Happy memories. I don't even notice I've fallen asleep until Effie Trinket is knocking on my door and piping, "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big day!" I get up out of bed, then realize that I never changed out of my outfit from last night. Well, there were more important things on my mind than fashion. So I just throw a shirt and pants on and head out the door.

I follow Haymitch to the dining car. Not that I don't know where it is by now, it's just that I'm behind Haymitch and I don't want him taunting me in case he remembers last night. But I highly doubt that.

The dining room, with no trace of the previous night left, is empty. Yay. Just me and Haymitch, sitting at the table for however long it will take either Katniss or Effie to get here. I sigh and sit down across the table from Haymitch. All of a sudden, I hear a shrill shriek from the kitchen. _Well, _I think. _Now we know where Effie is. _Haymitch's face is swollen red from last night, and cracking up at Effie does not improve his appearance.

Effie bursts out of the double doors of the kitchen. She pants out, "My wig- er, hair- was- almost- burnt!" I take one look at Haymitch, and we both burst out laughing. Effie just looks so comical with her eyes wide open and her panting and her bright pink wig. Typical Capitol.

Effie is looking disgruntled, so I calm down, while Haymitch continues to laugh, holding his stomach. "What happened, Effie?" I ask.

"Well, I came in there to complain about how my coffee was subpar, and all of a sudden, flames shot up from- from- the- what do you call it again? Ah, yes, the tove!" she relays excitedly.

I do all I can to keep from rolling my eyes. "I think you mean the stove?"

"Yes, yes, that," she says, waving this unimportant fact away. She looks at me, waiting for something. But I don't know what to do. Comfort her from her life-threatening scare? Please. The stove was probably all the way across the room. Effie waits a few seconds more, then says, a little bit irritated-sounding, "Hmph. I need my coffee," and she strides over to the silent waiter by the kitchen doors.

Now that Effie's gone, I notice the gargantuan pile of food before me. A basket of rolls, a platter of fruit on ice, eggs, ham, fried potatoes, and three different drinks: coffee, orange juice, and something that looks kind of like coffee, except with a lighter color. I realize that I'm really, really hungry, even after the huge dinner last night. The previous day's ordeals have worn me out. So I dig in, but I try to take it slowly, so that hopefully I won't feel as sick as I did last night. But it's hard. Every bite is more delicious than the previous, and soon I realize that I've forgotten to breathe. I look at the unfamiliar drink and wonder aloud, "What is this stuff?" It looks kind of like coffee but with a lot of creamer.

"Hot chocolate," says a voice behind me. I jump and realize that it's Effie. I didn't even notice she was there. Haymitch smirks.

"Sorry Effie, I didn't know you were there," I explain.

She flaps her hand as if waving away this small, unimportant detail. "It's quite all right. Try it, won't you?"

I take a cautious sip. _Oh my god. _This is amazing. I gulp down the delicious, creamy drink, even though my tongue and throat burn ferociously afterwards. I ask for another cup and it appears on my plate almost instantly, served by a silent helper. I thank him, and he just looks at me funny.

I grab a roll and bite into it. Buttery and light, and perfect. It would go so well with the hot chocolate. So I tear it up and dip it in. Even better.

"So boy," Haymitch says, chuckling. He gulps some sort of red juice and sets the glass down hard on the table. "You're in love with the girl that you'll be forced to fight to the death with." He takes another gulp and laughs. "A dilemma, a dilemma indeed."

My face turns red. I wasn't expecting him to remember the previous night. "Yeah, well, I guess my life just sucks that much."

Haymitch laughs again. "But you"- takes another sip- "you can use this to your advantage." His voice is starting to slur. By the time we get to the Capitol, there is no doubt that he'll be dead drunk. Lovely.

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" I ask. Because I honestly have no idea how that is supposed to be accomplished.

Just then Katniss walks in and blood rushes to my face. Haymitch chuckles. "Sit down, sit down!" Of course, he chooses to sit her down right across from me. Katniss looks in puzzlement at the cup of hot chocolate.

"They call it hot chocolate," I explain. "It's good."

She takes a tentative sip and then proceeds to gulp it down. Then she stuffs down so much food, it almost makes me sick just watching her. But she's so beautiful. All the time. I wish I could pull off being that perfect every day. Maybe my mother would actually give a damn about me then.

Then she finishes her food. I continue to dip my roll in the hot chocolate, savoring the buttery and sweet flavors mingle on my tongue. Gives me something to focus on besides Katniss. Because she'd think I was some sort of freak if I just stared at her throughout the whole meal.

"So you're supposed to give us advice," she says, her voice wrapping around me like a blanket. God, I've got to stop thinking about her so obsessively. Sterling's voice comes back to me. _There's no fighting love, Peet. You do crazy things, you think crazy things, love is crazy. That's all there is to it. _

"Here's some advice," says Haymitch. "Stay alive!" Then he cracks up. I clench my jaw and my fists and flash a look towards Katniss. _This is enough. _How can he just make light of this situation when he knows we're almost certainly going to die? And frankly, I'm sick of Haymitch and his goddamn drinking. I spent last night cleaning barf out of his clothes, for God's sake!

"That's very funny," I say through clenched teeth. I wait until he's off-guard, then knock the glass of spirits out of his hand, never breaking eye contact with him. I want him to know how furious I am. "Only not to us."

The hated one pauses for a moment, then punches me in the jaw. The pain feels good, fueling the flames raging within me. I fall out of my chair. _DAMN IT! _I want to pound Haymitch into the ground. I want to tear the Capitol down brick by brick. See, it's the Capitol's fault I'm thinking like this! Screw Haymitch. Screw the Capitol. Screw the world.

From the floor, I see Katniss stab Haymitch's hand. No, she's just blocking him from reaching the bottle of alcohol. Haymitch relaxes in his seat and stares back at us.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I get up and angrily scoop a handful of ice from the fruit container, so that I can soothe the place where Haymitch punched me. Now that my anger is seeping away, it's starting to hurt.

"No, let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena," says the all-seeing, wise Haymitch. Stupid. Doesn't he know that's against the rules? And anyways, how would I contact a tribute from another district?

"That's against the rules," I respond.

"Only if they catch you," he counters. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." To Katniss he says, "Can you hit anything with that knife but a table?"

She throws the blade across the room and it sticks in the seam between two panels. My heart sinks. I'll never measure up to Katniss's skill. All I can do is bake and draw. Very useful in the Arena.

"Stand over here," he says, gesturing towards the center of the room. "Both of you." We both do so. He examines us, circling us like vultures do their prey.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough," Haymitch concludes. Katniss is already attractive, and more than enough. She doesn't need plastic surgery, or makeup, or any fancy kind of enhancement. She's fine- no, more than fine, she's beautiful- the way she is. I don't want the Capitol touching her and making her some sort of plastic doll.

But I don't question Haymitch's motives, knowing full well that the audience's idea of beauty and my idea of beauty are two entirely different things. And the audience's idea of beauty actually matters.

He focuses his eyes on me for a few seconds more, then says, "All right, I'll make a deal with you." A deal! Wonderful! Because we can expect great things from this drunken wreck of a man! "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

I mull this over. Either we wander around clueless in the arena while Haymitch will be so wasted that he won't send any gifts our way, if we even get any, or we have some form of help and Haymitch stays sober… enough.

"Fine," I grudgingly agree.

"So help us," says Katniss. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

"One thing at a time," Haymitch interrupts. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you." Ah, encouraging. "But no matter what it is, don't resist."

I can tell this idea appeals to Katniss as much as it does to me, the way she protests, and the look on her face when Haymitch cuts her off. Oh well. I guess the mentor knows best. As soon as he leaves with the liquor bottle in hand, the world goes almost pitch-black, save for a few lights inside the train car. At first I'm confused, but then I remember the mountains that separates the Capitol from the rest of the world. The mountains that contributed to the defeat of the rebels, in the war that gave us the Hunger Games.

I feel trapped.

I take one look at Katniss and I can tell that she feels the same way, if not more intensely. Her fists are clenched, her face is pale and there are beads of sweat forming around her hair and neck. I remember the mine explosion, the explosion that cost the father of so many children- including Katniss. Everywhere I went that year, I would hear whispers of, "Everdeen… explosion… father… dead… depression."

I think about my father, my mother, and try to imagine life without them. I can't. Even though my mother, the one who gave me life and sustained it all these sixteen years, is how she is, we have our rare moments of affection. My father, who also gave me life and taught me everything I know, has never been very affectionate towards me, but men are men. I myself don't like showing my emotions.

We stand, side by side, until the train starts to slow. My heart starts to speed up. Close to the Capitol. Close to the city where we'll be prepared for our death. I never thought I'd go here. My eyes burn as the compartment is filled with light again.


End file.
